


Grey clouds (let go, breathe slow)

by alasweneverdo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Episode: s03e06 Motel California, Friendship, Gen, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 08:27:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alasweneverdo/pseuds/alasweneverdo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his mind, Isaac tells Stiles about how he’s sometimes afraid of what he is and what he’s done and what he <i>could</i> do, and there are nights where he lies on top of the sheets and curls up and hopes he won’t lose control and hurt anyone. He thinks about how stupid and careless and desperate Derek must have been to give the bite to someone so unstable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grey clouds (let go, breathe slow)

**Author's Note:**

> Set directly after "Motel California." I had a lot of feelings.
> 
> Beta work done by inheritedjeans, who does too much for my ego. Title credit goes to Foals from the song "2 Trees."

This is not where Isaac wants to be.

He wants to sit at the back of the bus, shrinking inward till he turns invisible. He wants to, but they've carefully herded him to the space just across the aisle from Scott and Stiles. The only bright side to this is that he doesn't have to deal with anyone sitting next to him; the girls are together and Boyd is clear on the opposite end of the bus. No one else ever tries to go near him, which is one of the perks of being an orphan who sneers a lot and doesn't talk to people.

There's never been a time in Isaac's life when he's been particularly approachable. He thinks that should sadden him, but when people strike up a conversation they have this habit of asking him,

"You okay?"

Isaac stiffens, turning to look at Stiles. The empty seat is no longer empty, and Isaac can't say he's thrilled about the sudden proximity. He nods mechanically, then looks back out the window, taking in clouds that might as well be Rorschach blots for all the shapes he's seeing in them.

"Sure about that?" says Stiles. "'Cause, y'know, _you_ may have crazy regenerative powers, but I'm pretty sure your clothes don't."

Two thoughts occur to Isaac at around the same time. One is that anyone could have overheard the casual mention of preternatural healing, unlikely though it is that they'd be eavesdropping to begin with. The other is that he has no idea what Stiles is even _talking_ about, and it isn't until he follows Stiles's line of sight that he sees—and feels—his claws stabbing into his own leg. The smell of blood rushing into his nose is like a truck slamming against a concrete wall, sudden and violent.

It takes a few seconds for him to have the presence of mind to find his anchor and come back. He raises his hand to stare at the red on his fingers, resisting the inexplicable compulsion to lick it off.

"Isaac?"

Isaac tears his gaze away from the bloodstains to look at Stiles again. Somewhere, hidden under the rumble of the bus and the words of every conversation around them and the wind whistling through some open window, the steady rhythm of Stiles's heartbeat picks up. The increase in tempo sounds like mild anxiety; Isaac can discern that from the rapid thump of terror or embarrassment easily enough. It raises his hackles.

People can say all they want that they're concerned and have his best interests at heart. That doesn't make their worry any less of a nuisance.

"I'm fine," he says. Then, for the sake of being polite, he adds, "Thanks, though."

"Bullshit," says Stiles. "You look sicker than Jared. Seriously, dude, you are looking _pale_. And sweaty. This is about what happened back at the motel, right?"

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"Now _that_ I believe."

Isaac clenches his jaw, grinding his teeth like he can crush this strand of conversation between them. He refuses to make eye contact, thinking that if he faces the window for long enough, Stiles might take the clear dismissal for what it is and leave him alone.

"Hey, like I said last night, if you need anyone to—"

"I don't," Isaac cuts in through gritted teeth.

When he feels Stiles's hand give a single pat of reassurance on his shoulder, Isaac is careful not to flinch. The result is that he goes rigid in his seat, instantaneously less like a person and more like a titanium-reinforced structure. Stiles yanks his hand away quicker than if he'd touched a hot stove.

"Sorry," he says. "Wasn't thinking."

Isaac shrugs and relaxes his posture like he couldn't care less. The truth is that he's mortified at his own skittishness, his sudden distaste for contact. He isn't _like_ this. Most days, he can even handle Scott tackling him; that a light touch on the shoulder would make his skin crawl is just pathetic. He wishes he could convey this to Stiles without saying anything, and without risking the sight (and sound and feel and _stench_ ) of that nauseating sympathy he's so accustomed to.

"All right, well, you're givin' off some pretty strong 'fuck off' vibes, so I'll leave you to it," says Stiles.

There's a short and panicky moment between the end of the sentence and the second Stiles starts to leave his seat, just long enough for Isaac to fret over a million things at once. His eyes go wide and he turns his head so quickly he feels a twinge of pain in his neck.

"You don't have to," he says in a rush. "I mean, you can go if you want. Either way, I don't mind. You know. Whatever."

"Man, nothing says friendship like kind of tolerating someone," Stiles replies, settling back down on the shitty vinyl.

His smile is tight around the edges, and Isaac doesn't exactly need superhuman senses to see how exhausted the guy is. It's the kind of exhaustion that goes beyond a lack of sleep, the kind acquired through an onslaught of thought and emotion. The tiredness is written all over him, from the bags under his eyes (and this is where the added perception kicks in and says the salty puffiness is the product of tears) to the slight sluggishness of his movements. Isaac feels kind of guilty for snapping at him—almost guilty enough to apologize, but there's that saying about horseshoes and hand grenades, and Isaac hates "sorry" more than most words. He's done with apologizing more than he has to and likes the idea of things not being his fault.

So instead of admitting aloud that he feels like a dick for taking things out on Stiles, he asks, "So what's the plan? What do we do when we get back?"

Stiles lets out a whooshing breath that makes his cheeks puff. "Well, since Derek's maybe less dead than we thought, we should probably look for him. Still a chance we'll find him in little bite-sized chunks somewhere, but hey, can't hurt to check."

It's a lucky thing no one on the bus gives enough of a fuck about them to listen in on what they're saying, since Isaac isn't sure how either of them would come up with a believable excuse for this. Subtlety really isn't their strong suit. It's the greatest of miracles that their big supernatural secret hasn't been found out yet.

"What if we don't find him?" asks Isaac.

"Then we're just as boned as we were yesterday." At Isaac's frown, Stiles backtracks. "We'll figure something out, Derek or no Derek. I don't care if we have to use the friggin' power of love and friendship—we'll manage."

"Yeah?" Isaac's lips curl into a smirk. "Are we talking _Harry Potter_ or _My Little Pony?_ "

"Oh god," Stiles groans. " _Please_ don't mention that when Scott's nearby. He's fucking in love with _My Little Pony_. He even called me Pinkie Pie for a week one time."

Isaac surprises himself by laughing quietly. "I wouldn't worry about it," he says. "He's texting, and you know he can't multitask."

"Yeah, you know, I'm actually pretty amazed he can blink and breathe at the same time," says Stiles, and they share a smile.

Still, there's an unspoken consensus between them that they wouldn't trade Scott for anything, because even with his slow moments and bad judgment and tragedy of a love life, he's still the exact kind of guy you want on your side. Isaac can't call many people friends, not for real, but Scott? Scott's one of the best friends he's had in a while. Maybe ever. Scott's the kind of guy a person can rely on, who'll defend someone to the death just because it's the right thing to do, and Isaac appreciates that about him.

Now he looks at Stiles, who's still sitting by Isaac even though he has no reason to. Stiles, who also has a dead mom but at least got a caring father out of the deal. Stiles, who likes comic books and greasy food and the way Lydia Martin looks in a low-cut dress; who doesn't shy away from Isaac in spite of everything Isaac's done and threatened to do; who doesn't admit to liking boys, even though Isaac's caught him watching Derek take his shirt off on more than one occasion.

There's no reason in the world for Isaac not to dive right in and start spending time with Stiles, watching _Starship Troopers_ and sneaking beer out of the sheriff's fridge and slaughtering each other in _Halo_. He has more in common with Stiles than any of the wolves, and if things go all right, Stiles could be someone he could _talk_ to.

It's been a long time since Isaac has talked to anyone about anything that matters. He wonders if he's forgotten how.

In his mind, it goes like this: He makes a snarky comment, Stiles fires back, and they go back and forth till Isaac finds a way to hint that they should hang out more. Maybe with Scott—or without him. Whichever. And Isaac confesses to Stiles that he still thinks about his dad all the time—and not just the beatings or the punishments in the freezer, but him teaching Isaac how to ride a bike, helping him with his fifth grade science fair project, crying over photos of Mrs. Lahey and Camden. And on a good day, those hurt more than the phantom pains of a cracked rib or a cut on his temple.

In his mind, Isaac tells Stiles about how he's sometimes afraid of what he is and what he's done and what he _could_ do, and there are nights where he lies on top of the sheets and curls up and hopes he won't lose control and hurt anyone. He thinks about how stupid and careless and desperate Derek must have been to give the bite to someone so unstable. And the thought of Derek makes him feel angry and hopeless because, god, if Derek's dead then what can they _do?_ And what's the point of turning people if you're just gonna die on them? Aren't dads supposed to take _care_ of their kids?

In his mind, it's easy for Isaac to tell Stiles that he misses Derek a bit like how he misses his dad: grudgingly, painfully, maybe against his better judgment. And it isn't the fairest comparison, sure, but Isaac is tired of people who act like he should be grateful that they let him do their dirty work.

In his mind, Stiles _appreciates_ him. And that—that means something.

"Everything okay, Fido?" asks Stiles. "I mean, not gonna judge, but you've been staring at the back of that seat pretty fucking intently. Like you're gonna kill it. Or have sex with it. It's kinda freakin' me out a little."

"Sorry," Isaac says out of reflex. He blinks a few times, feeling like he's just been shaken from a dream. "I was just thinking."

"About murdering or fucking the seat? 'Cause, dude, I was mostly kidding."

Isaac looks at Stiles bemusedly. "Mostly?"

"Well, yeah, I dunno what you werewolves get up to," says Stiles. "Whenever I show up at Scott's house I'm kinda worried I'll walk in on him dragging his butt on the carpet. But no, really, what were you thinking about? Care to share it with the class?"

Isaac almost says an immediate and resolute _no_ , except he remembers that isn't the way to approach any kind of closeness with anyone. He hesitates, wondering how much of the truth would be safe to tell.

"How much everything sucks," he says.

"Tell me about it," Stiles says in agreement. "I'd kill for some normal problems right about now."

"Normal?" Isaac can't help laughing at the word. "You'd rather freak out about girls and lacrosse than fight an evil gang of werewolves?"

"Are you kidding me? I _still_ freak out about girls and lacrosse, dude. But they've taken a definite backseat to the evil gang of werewolves. Hey, should we be worrying about people listening in on this?" Stiles's voice lowers on the last part, like he's only just gained an acute enough level of consciousness to wonder at the very thing that's been bothering Isaac throughout the conversation, and weirdly, that puts Isaac at ease.

"Nah, I don't think they give a fuck. Probably think we're part of some _D &D_ group or something."

To Isaac's surprise, Stiles says, "Man, I wish. That would be so cool. You know, we should totally start one with the pack. I bet Peter would get off on being our creepy, underhanded DM and sending us on a ton of annoying missions with shitty loot. And we could force weird romantic subplots with Scott and Boyd's characters and make everyone uncomfortable. That would be awesome, dude."

"No shit?" says Isaac. "You ever play?"

Stiles shakes his head. "Never had anyone who was interested in starting. Or knew how to play. Unless." His eyes widen slowly as he looks at Isaac with hope and wonderment.

"Uh." Isaac scratches his neck awkwardly, making sure to use the hand that doesn't have a layer of dry blood on it. "I've played a little. Not much, though."

That's kind of a complete lie. He had friends in middle school who got him hooked on it, but he hasn't played with a group or anything since Camden—yeah. Since Camden.

"Oh my god, are you serious! That's perfect!" Stiles turns. "Scott! Yo, Scott! We're gonna be a stereotype and start a _D &D_ group!"

Scott's sigh isn't as long-suffering as he'd probably like it to be. "Yeah, whatever. Dibs on paladin," he says, not looking up from his phone.

"No, you're gonna be a halfling."

"Come _on_ , dude."

"Isaac, tell him he's gonna be a halfling," says Stiles.

Scott glances over to give Isaac a pleading look. "Isaac. Come on. Say I'm not a halfling."

Isaac just smiles, shaking his head and pointedly looking away. He hears Scott groan, and then Scott and Stiles are bickering in the way of either a married couple or two old, old friends. It would ignite the slow-burning flame of Isaac's envy if he didn't feel a slightly desperate sort of protectiveness over them both. If he can't be happy—and it's more of an _if_ than ever, more of a vague possibility than a likelihood—he can at least ensure that they are.

It isn't as though Isaac can just forget about the things that have happened, the people he's lost and who've failed him. He won't bother trying, 'cause he knows he isn't strong enough, or certain enough, or fortunate enough. But even so, he can maybe fool himself into thinking none of that matters, that it doesn't affect him or define him. He was doing a decent enough job of it before now, constantly deluding himself into thinking he was normal and not a frightened, unbalanced child.

Now Stiles is watching him, eyebrows raised.

"What?" asks Isaac, hoping he hasn't been broadcasting his sudden and aggressive bout of melancholy.

"This is probably the first time I've been near you for more than five minutes and haven't felt like you're trying to kill me with your brain," says Stiles.

Isaac doesn't say anything at first. Doesn't know what he's even supposed to say. Stiles's expression turns grim, and fuck if that doesn't make Isaac the slightest bit jittery.

"That was just, uh." Stiles clears his throat. " _Firefly_."

"Haven't watched it," says Isaac.

"Scott hasn't seen _Star Wars_ ," Stiles replies.

"Wow."

"I know."

Fidgeting, Isaac looks down at his lap. The blood probably isn't going to come out, he thinks. Does he have the money for another pair of jeans? Mrs. McCall hasn't let him pay for anything, so he must have at least a little saved up. Still, it's kind of annoying. Replacing bloodstained clothing has always been one of his least favorite activities.

"Hey, when we're all done trying not to get killed by this year's Big Bad, we should watch it," says Stiles.

"What, _Firefly_ or _Star Wars_?"

"Oh, definitely both. Just the original trilogy, though. I've got this feeling Scott would really like the prequels, and to be honest I'm not ready to deal with that."

Isaac smiles, then licks his suddenly-too-dry lips. "This before or after we start _D &D?_"

"One thing at a time," says Stiles. And yeah, that sounds about right.

"Stiles?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks," says Isaac, meaning it for the first time in kind of a while.

"Dude, I have no idea what you're even thanking me for, but I'm so prepared to take credit."

Isaac knows that's a lie, but he absolutely doesn't mind.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm maybe probably going to write something after this that's full-on Stisaac, 'cause I just... really love Stisaac.
> 
> Then again, I make a lot of empty promises. So we'll see what happens.


End file.
